


The Itch

by DisasterJones



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Backstory, Campaign 02 (Critical Role), Gen, critical role - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-09 22:51:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13491462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisasterJones/pseuds/DisasterJones
Summary: The itch is scalding, so intense, Nott could swear it might be visible on the sides of her face.





	The Itch

**Author's Note:**

> AN: takes place prior to the beginning of the campaign

There it is again.

That incessant itch.

Nott’s sluggish hand falls from her stomach onto the floor, scrabbling to the pack tucked under her head. Half-asleep, she fishes for the flask of whiskey, only to recall halfway through unscrewing the cap that she had drained the remainder of her reserves just a few hours prior.

There’s a loud crash somewhere upstairs. She bolts upright, bright yellow eyes sharp and wildly scanning the room for Caleb, or the kitty, or some ale. Anything for reassurance.

But he’s gone.  
  


A wave of terror crashes through her. She spins frantically, searching the dark and hoping it’s just playing tricks on her, hoping to miraculously have her vision adjust and for him to be so obvious, just a dirty sleeping lump in the dark corner. Why can’t that be it. Where’s Caleb? Did he leave? Why? Or… was he discovered? How? How did she not notice??

The itch is scalding, so intense, Nott could swear it might be visible on the sides of her face.

The fear is like a prickling cold against her spine, an icy claw of horrid paranoia that throttles her insides and freezes her in place. Her once ragged breathing gives way to pitchy wheezing and hyperventilation as her overwrought mind pieces together the dismal reality.

Crouched with her arms wrapped around her knees, she scratches thoughtfully at her face, hyperfocused on every last detail she can remember. Nott tries to will her senses to pick up on some minute detail, or remember some buried unconscious memory, some idea of where to go or what to do next. The more she waits and ponders, the more futile the situation feels.

She winces suddenly, padding a finger to the spot on her face that she’d been scratching. It’s bleeding… Pretty bad. But the itch is worse than ever before. And she has nothing. No Caleb. No Frumpkin. No liquor.

  
Something catches her attention, some far-off clacking noise. Above.

Barely aware of her own movements, she swipes her belongings into her pack and deftly tucks into a crevice between the wall and a squat barrel, full of some liquid that reeks of something resembling rotting meat. The footsteps overhead grow louder until the shrill squeak of the cellar door hinge penetrates the stillness.

Her hand, once trembling and uncertain, slides slow and carefully into her belt and unsheathes a small, short-bladed dagger . Patient. Steady.

Heavy boots trudge down the steps, not slow. _Do they know I’m here?_ She holds her breath. This is what Caleb was protecting her from, and now she had to deal with it all alone. _When...if.... if I get out of this, it’ll be my turn to save you, Caleb._

Exhale. Patient. Steady.

Just as the footsteps round the stairs, a cloaked figure passes in front of the barrel, giving Nott the window to strike. She leaps from the shadows, eyes narrowed and focused as she thrusts upward, the blade sinking swiftly into them just below the shoulder.

The man gasps and arches his shoulders, dropping the bundle in his arms to grip at the sudden pain in his back. Nott notes the loud thudding of falling tomes and the thick clattering of a large bottle rolling across the floor.

Her momentum falters at the uncomfortable twinge of doubt in her chest.

The cloak hood falls away to reveal grimy, rust-brown hair and a disheveled, shocked face.

Nott’s adrenaline spikes. The itch is ripping her apart now.

  
“Caleb-” she breathes in disbelief.  
  


The dagger in her hand suddenly feels more like a red hot iron than a simple handmade tool. She yelps, dropping the weapon and rushing clumsily to her pack for a healing kit.

  
“I’m so sorry! I’m so so sorry, I should’ve- I’m SO sorry!”

  
Her hands refuse to cooperate, once so confident and precise, now again anxious and petrified. She fumbles feebly with the latch on the box, her vision swimming as frustrated tears begin to spill over.

  
“Stupid… stupid, stupid, stupid stupid stupid!” She grumbles and mutters, biting punishingly at her lip in an effort to stifle her sobs.

“Not stupid, Nott - it’s my fault, I should have left you a note, or- or waited for you to wake up.” Caleb is at her side now, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Really, it’s okay - see?”

  
She watches him dolefully as he raises his arm and twists around dramatically, wincing a bit on overextension.

  
He turns back to her, smiling warmly, “Fit as a fool with too much wine, _ja_?”

  
She can’t help but crack a small smile. His sayings were so weird, but in an odd way, they made sense for the two of them. If nothing else, it was nice to have that. It was nice to have him. Rather than say anything, she simply starts to treat the wound as best she can, carefully applying bandages and giving a sorrowful look at every grimace and sharp exhale.

  
“Maybe something, ah… Hm..” Caleb starts, eyeing the dagger a bit as Nott finishes dressing the wound. Not worried, but thoughtfully, like he’s working out a puzzle or a difficult spell. “I wonder.”

  
Nott expects the rest of the thought, but after waiting a few moments, it doesn’t come. She squats down, carving scratches into the floorboards to occupy her hands. She doesn’t have it in her to ask if the bottle was for her. Even if it were, she doesn’t feel like she deserves the relief.  After a long moment of relative silence, she glances up to find him still staring off into space.

  
“You wonder what?” she prods, fidgeting nervously with a bit of loose leather on the hilt of her dagger.

  
His brow creases for a moment before speaking, as if searching for the words.

  
“How do you feel about something a little… how do I put it.. Where you could have a good long look before you really, you know,” he mimes a stabbing motion, smirking lightly.

  
Nott’s ears flush at the teasing, but she considers the thought, tapping her finger against her nose. What could she feasibly afford (or easily steal) that could keep her at a distance, but still be good protection?

Her eyes land on the short dagger blade, flintknapped and chipping away near the hilt.

  
“I think… I have an idea.”

  
Caleb smiles to himself and uncorks the wine, taking a swig before handing it over to Nott.

  
“ _Gut_.”


End file.
